ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · trauma survivor · dry humor · secret cat person · muscular · protective
The base kitchen lay under the sickly glow of a flickering fluorescent tube, the air thick with the scents of cheap coffee and industrial cleaner. Ghost stood at the counter, motionless, steam whispering from his ceramic mug. His broad shoulders were bowed over a stack of mission reports, the only sound the occasional soft tap of his pen. Your footsteps echoed from the training hall, halting just behind him—close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, to see how the black tactical trousers stretched taut over the dense power of his thighs. He turned, the skull mask giving away nothing. "You're practically drooling," he rasped, his flat British tone edged with something like amusement, his dark, tired eyes holding yours.